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by LozaMoza



Series: Moments [18]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Smut, because Geralt and Yennefer, or maybe not, otp, reader decides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26221483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LozaMoza/pseuds/LozaMoza
Summary: Geralt is injured after a fight with a drowner and comes back to the inn to recover.He can't be sure if she's actually there, or if it's some desperate attempt from his mind to seek some small measure of reprieve from the endless longing for her.He is sure of one thing though: at the moment, it doesn't really matter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Moments [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806943
Comments: 26
Kudos: 59





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**Author's Note:**

> I liked the idea of playing with Belleteyn in the "did it happen/was it a hallucination" theme. So this is a reader-decide piece. What fits your headcanon best.
> 
> For the record, for me, Belleteyn absolutely was real.

Geralt stumbled into the inn, his hand clenched tightly against the cloth on his chest. It was a rather ineffective attempt to cover up the massive gash across his ribs - courtesy of a wayward drowner claw - and now all he wanted was to sleep off the pain and let the Swallow heal the damn thing. 

The inn-keep looked up and grimaced when he saw Geralt. “Witcher, you be feelin’ well. You lookin’ mighty hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt grumbled in return. 

“I won’t be havin’ my linens soiled by no witcher blood. You hear me!” Geralt ignored him and went to his rented room, slamming the door hard.

In truth, he was more angry at himself than the inn-keep. He was used to townsfolk treating him and others like garbage until a monster needed killing, and while it certainly irked him, it was hardly unexpected. A lifetime of trodding the Path had carved its lessons into his very skin. He would get nothing more than distrust and disdain from the majority of people he would meet. 

Not  _ everyone, _ though. 

And there was the crux of the real problem.

It was why he was injured now. His mind and senses, usually attuned to every moment of a fight, had been distracted by thoughts of her. He’d overheard mention of a beautiful woman, dressed in black and white, hair the color of night, passing through town. Rumor was she was a powerful sorceress. Geralt’s hands had twitched, his jaw had set, and he had fought to keep thoughts of her at bay. Her eyes, blazing in that violet fire. Her hair, wild and untameable. Her smell, the most amazing scent in all the world. He closed his eyes and could see her, smell her.

Needless to say, the last thing he’d been concerned about when fighting that damnable drowner pair was another one jumping out from the side. He hadn’t even noticed the third creep up next to him, close enough to slash a claw straight through his armor and into his rib cage. He had dispatched the thing in a bout of projected rage moments later, but the claw left his mark. Another scar to the tapestry that was his chest. 

From a fucking _ drowner,  _ no less.

He pulled off his armor and shirt to examine the wound more closely. The Swallow potion he’d taken had already begun to help knit the wound back together and the worst of the bleeding was done. He’d have to clean it, though. Witcher mutations left him protected from most illnesses, but drowners were disgusting creatures that lived in the filth and shit of stagnant waterways. There was no telling what kind of vile flotsam this creature had been swimming in before it attacked him. He looked through his packs for some alcohol to disinfect the wound.

Yennefer. He hated that after three years since he last saw her, mere mention of her could still affect him so much. Gods know he’d tried to move on from her. In moments of what he could only describe as endless dark, he’d wanted nothing more. He’d searched for relief in whores and in other sorceresses, and for the briefest of moments he occasionally found some. But his thoughts would always turn back to her. He’d remember the taste of her lipstick and his throat would go dry. He’d think about the way her skin felt cool and electric, like no one else’s, and his hands would clench tightly, digging his nails into his palms until they broke the skin; a sad attempt to find some other pain to focus on. 

It never worked. 

Even worse, he’d fear that she’d forgotten  _ him. _ He’d heard rumors of her residing happily with other men, a jeweler for one. The thought of another man holding her, making love to her, kept him from sleep. He’d throw himself into the Path at those moments, taking his fury at the loss of her out on the denizens of the swamps and the mountains. 

A knock on the door jarred him from his revelries. 

“I paid for the night, dammit, so I’ll be staying till the morning. Now leave,” he growled. 

The door opened. 

“I said, leave,” he yelled as he turned to the door, ready to confront the bigoted inn-keep if he must, but he stopped short. 

_ She _ was there. 

“Yennefer?” he whispered, and he wished he could take it back as soon as it came out. She couldn’t be real. Perhaps he was hallucinating.  _ White Gull? Did he take any?  _ He didn’t remember. 

She didn’t say anything, just walked into the room and closed the door behind her.  _ Could hallucinations close doors? _

She looked him over slowly, taking in his Path-hardened features, her gaze resting along the gash on his rib-cage. “I’d heard stories that a witcher was in town, and I needed to see if it was you,” she stated dryly.

“Why?” He still wasn’t certain this if this was real or not.

She didn’t answer that. She merely walked over to him, and after a moment's hesitation, softly touched his bare chest. “You’re hurt,” she whispered.

Geralt didn’t care if she was real or not anymore. She was there, with him, and if this was his mind’s feeble attempt at some desperate measure of peace, so be it. He closed his eyes to relish the feel of her soft fingertips. “I’ll be fine,” he sighed.

“I know,” she said back to him, and she touched the skin above the gash along his side. She whispered a spell and the wound immediately healed, leaving only a pink scar in its wake.

“Yen,  _ please, _ ” he said, and the words sounded like a pleading prayer, heavy and slow with the weight of a thousand additional thoughts the syllables were too small to carry. 

“I know, Geralt,” she said again, and she kissed him, feather-soft against his lips. 

Geralt lost all sense at that point. Her lips, those lips that he had spent countless hours dreaming of and paid shameful amounts of coin to forget, touched his skin and alighted his body with need, with want, with something he couldn’t even put into words beyond more.  _ More. _ That was what she was to him.  _ More.  _ He pulled her tight to him, thrusting his tongue against her mouth. She opened for him, hungry with want.

He tucked his arms underneath her knees and carried her to the bed, laying her beneath him, and he stopped to marvel at her. There she was,  _ his Yen. _ She was breathing rapidly, her heart thrumming beneath his hands. He twisted a lock of her hair in his fingers and she opened her eyes to watch him. They stopped for a moment, staring at each other, and he smiled. “I’ve missed you,” he smiled. He needed her to know. Needed to know that that fucking wretched dawn when he left her was a millstone of regret around his neck. He never should have gone. “Yen, I…,” he began.

She put a finger to his mouth. “Stop. Don’t say anything. Just…,” she stopped for a moment, breath quivering. “Just make love to me.”

_ No, I want MORE, _ he thought and for a moment he wondered if she was reading his thoughts, if she could hear him. If she could, she made no response to it. Instead, she reached up and pulled his mouth to hers. He kissed her, feeling her body shudder against the movement of his hands. He began to work her white blouse with it’s impossibly-sheer fabric, releasing the buttons from their constraints to get to her breasts. He kissed her collarbone, her sternum, finally taking her lace-clad nipples into his mouth. She moaned softly as he bit them gently, enjoying the feel of them hardening against his tongue. She was his - for the moment at least - and he would make that moment last as long as he could before she slipped away from him again. 

“Geralt,” she sighed a bit louder this time, and he moved his hands lower, unbuttoning the tiny onyx beads that held her skirt, pulling the silk fabric from her body. Slowly, his hands skirted the contours of her hips, the rise of her pubic bone, the dip of her belly, and finally they went under the lace of her lingerie and parted her folds. His fingers were met with soaked flesh and he cursed. His cock pushed against the confines of his britches, and he tried to steady himself, to control his breathing, but Yennefer had no such qualms and pushed into his hand herself, causing his fingers to enter her slightly. 

“Yen,” he groaned again, and she moved against the pressure of his calloused and thick fingers. 

“Make love to me, Witcher,” she said again, and he knew he had reached his limit of restraint. He fumbled with his laces for a moment, and once free’d, he positioned himself at the apex of her thighs and slowly sank into her. They both cried out, and Geralt knew he’d never find a replacement for this feeling with her. It was so much  _ more _ than sex. It was something new and unfamiliar and terrifying, because he knew when they parted - and it seemed destined for them to always part - the loss of it would _ fucking rip _ him in two, leaving him a broken man with nothing but the Path to carry the pieces along. 

But he didn’t have to worry about that right now. 

He started to move, and she whimpered, gripping him tight to her body, kissing his shoulders. She arched her hips up to meet his thrusts, slow and with steady rhythm, and the deeper entrance it provided made him quake. He began to lose himself in her. In the feel of her. The smell of her. Her taste. Before he could help it, they were both screaming their release, cascading together into that moment in-between, when time no longer matters and eternity is held in an instant. 

Into _ more _ . 

*******

Reality slowly came back to him, and he rolled over, holding her against him for one  _ more  _ precious moment. Sleep was beginning to claim him, but he fought the sensation. He didn’t want to wake to the inevitable loneliness he knew awaited him. 

“Stay with me,” he said, and he knew it was impossible. He knew it was a prayer that would not be answered. Not now. 

She said nothing, but before he finally fell into a dreamless slumber he thought he heard the smallest whisper of a response. “I miss you, too.”

When he woke the next morning, she was gone. His scar was healed, but that could have been the Swallow potion. He searched the room for any sign she’d actually been there in the first place.

He found none, save the lingering scent of lilacs and gooseberries.

He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining that as well.

He carried his broken pieces along the Path once again, wishing for _more._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading another one of my angsty one shots. I love these things. 
> 
> And thank you so much for comments and kudos. They seriously make my day. You're amazing. :)


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